


Out of Service

by moondusts



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Coping, Gen, Hyuroi Week, Mid-Canon, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondusts/pseuds/moondusts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a routine to working with Hughes, and Mustang finds that the sudden lack of interruptions and sharp rings on his direct line only seem to be reminders of what's missing. Written for Hyuroi Week 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Service

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Phone Call

Roy Mustang never thought he could miss the all-too-frequent, completely unnecessary interruptions to his workday courtesy of Maes Hughes. Whether he was in the middle of a discussion with his team or finally making headway on a stack of paperwork there was often a sharp ringing cutting through his concentration to share the newest update on Hughes' family life. Though Roy was happy for him, truly, and respected that Hughes had been able to carve out a section of his life that was personal, familial, and untouched by all that he had endured to reach this point in his life. Such a distinction was one that Roy suspected he would never have the ability to make.

Something so simple was what he now longed to hear the most. Some part of him had been clinging to the futile hope that the call he was expecting would be Hughes, ready to brag about his pride and joy before going home to be the husband and father that he was still supposed to be.

Then again, lots of things are simple. He had heard that often enough.

That moment had been replaying in his mind since the body was discovered. It should have seemed strange to him that Hughes was calling from an outside line so late at night. Maybe, just maybe, a few extra seconds could have made a difference.

Instead, some of the last words that Hughes had heard from Roy in his final moments of life had been that he "didn't have time." Hindsight truly was twenty-twenty when there was all the time in the world to endlessly retrace his actions - and inaction - from that night.

More than once in the time since Hughes' death he's found himself dialing that familiar extension, an act of pure habit and muscle memory that doesn't fully register in his mind until he's greeted by the same cold recording.

_"I'm sorry, the number you have dialed is not in use. Please dial '0' to be connected to an operator or hang up and call Central Command's general line for assistance."_

Roy wonders if, on some level, it's less of an accident and more of a subconscious refusal to give in. Hughes could answer and reveal that this was some convoluted plan that had to be kept secret even from him. An undercover effort, perhaps, or a ruse to divert attention elsewhere. It's a nice thought, and Roy wishes he had a reason to believe it more than he's wished for anything in his life.

The last strands of denial that still had a hold on him had snapped the morning of the funeral. Roy recalled a conversation he had with Hughes shortly after Gracia made her pregnancy public that seemed to finally fit into its proper context, and was struck with guilt as he realized that Hughes believed his loyalty may one day result in his death.

As he stood over Hughes' freshly-filled grave Roy promised himself, much like he had promised his friend years ago, that when he had whatever was stirring inside the military under control he would set aside the resources to ensure that Gracia and Elicia were able to continue to live comfortably. As much as the thought of sitting inside Hughes' home and being unable to escape an even more significant reminder of his absence panicked him, he owed it to the family to be "Uncle Roy" not just in name, but in action.

The funeral is still fresh in Roy's mind, as if it had only ended hours ago. Roy's never been good with death after losing his parents at such a young age, and knows that grief always finds a way into the little spaces that never fully heal. But there's a certain expectation that comes with being a soldier, of course. Life can end at any moment, in the blink of an eye, and there's an understanding that any day can be the last. _No_ , he thinks to himself. _Hughes didn't only die for Amestris, he died for you._

Roy can practically feel Hughes' faceless killer breathing down his neck each day, taunting him about all the pieces that don't quite fit into place. He can push it below the surface in public and continue to play the part that he's so carefully crafted for years as the fun-loving ladies' man who ties up the phone lines.

He can endure the crackling static and the periodic silence from his current call with "Elizabeth."

It sounds like everything is going pretty smoothly, he thinks, and Hawkeye can handle herself with or without the extra support from the team. Roy can keep up with the usual banter without issue, making mental notes of the updates that Hawkeye is providing when he's suddenly aware of the tension in his free hand. _Relax, relax, relax. We've done ops like this countless times._

There's noise on the line, the unmistakable sound of shots being fired and muffled voices in the background. Hawkeye's confident when she tells him it's just a minor customer problem, yet Roy can feel his fist tighten once again.

Silence, and then more voices. Something getting knocked over. Quickened breathing that may be Hawkeye's, or just as easily his own alongside his pounding heartbeat.

"I'll have to call you back," she says. "It's a regular." This time the line goes completely quiet.

That's all it took to push Roy out of the cool exterior that he had been struggling to maintain. He's yelling into the receiver, thoughts filling with images of phone booths and streams of blood spilling onto pavement. He can get there, if he hurries. He won't make the same mistake a second time.

Roy slams the phone down on his desk and rushes out of his office into the hallway. As he races toward the main doors he passes the row of phones on the wall that had recently been covered in specks and streaks of blood. The same path that he's racing down had been a dying man's final march, a trail of blood that would never completely come out of the floor no matter how many times it had been scrubbed.

The cool air gnaws at his skin as he fumbles for keys he can only hope are still in his pocket. The car hums to life and Roy speeds out of Central's lot, racing to Hawkeye's location with the steering wheel locked in a white-knuckled grip.

"I'm such a fool," he mumbles between turns. The dread that had been pooling in his stomach creeps up into his throat, drying out his mouth and making his shirt collar feel as though it's suddenly shrunk.

It only takes a few minutes to reach his destination, but the final stretch to Hawkeye's position is agonizing. He can't be too late; he can't watch another ally be lowered into the ground.

When he does reach her she's not exactly safe, but the scene is far from the gruesome images that his mind has been creating. Roy feels a mix of relief and vexation wash over him, and silently chastises himself for his rashness as he helps Hawkeye get the situation under control. As his breathing returns to normal Roy notices that Riza appears to be less than pleased, but he refrains from speaking out of fear that everything from the weight loss to the nightmares will spill out of his mouth uncontrolled.

"By coming here you've let them know that you're involved! Are you an idiot?" she asked, half shouting.

Yes, once again it seemed so. "Okay, okay, I'm an idiot," he responded.

An idiot who jumps every time the phone rings.


End file.
